Dengaku Man 5, the gypsy story
by Forehead
Summary: Dengaku Man gives the story of his life as a gypsy! explore his past lives in this first person feature length story! there will be more pigeons!
1. Journal log, part 1

The life of a gypsy, as told by Dengaku man

The life of a gypsy, as told by Dengaku man. The following is in first person.

PLANTER'S PEANUTS!!

1823, July the 12th

Twas' a dark, cold day, the day it happened, the day I received the family box. It was a sacred box, and anyone who stole said family box, was cursed to forever be tortured by one-thousand cantaloupes. The box was wet. And cold. But yet, it was my new home. The life of a gypsy was hard, always tantalized by that tasty pigeon meat, but always out of reach. Most of my days were spent in that box, thinking of new ways to trap the town's cats.

1823, July the 30th

A glorious day! My mother and father have stolen boarding passes to a train to Cleveland, the land of the Cleves! I knew my life was at a turning point. About 178.925674921 degrees of a turning point, but a point nonetheless. I climbed aboard the train and quickly stowed the box in the pigeon compartment.

1823, October the 4th

Life has been busy in Cleveland. So many tourists to beg for money, so little time. But how should I know, I can't afford a watch! I have decided to set up a fortune telling booth to scam the gullible clevish. If that's a word. LIES!

1824, January the 1st

A new day of a new year. My resolution is to eat some churros from money I scammed off people. Christmas with the folks was great. Pigeon roast and cat pudding. Uncle 9-finga's even brought me some ductape for the good ol' box. Good ol' ductape. Box. My fortune-telling scam has been going steady. I can even afford a bigger box. Contractors are installing the pool next month.

1824, January the 12th

Today I stole a shopping cart from wal mart. It has a squeaky wheel. If I manipulate it right, I can make music for the fortune booth. Now I have a place to keep all of my pigeons. i think I'll join a gang and get into a bar fight. Know anyone with a good fake id?


	2. Journal log, part 2

1824, January the 6th

It was particularly cold today. Now that all the festivities are over with, I must return to my job. And now the wheel has stopped squeaking on my shopping cart. Oh, dear. Maybe I should have been a professional wrestler, like Pa' said, after all…?

1824, January the 12th

People have wisened up to my tactics. Perhaps I should try to bring in more customers using a cat as bait? This town has a lot of cats. I'm sure no one would notice if one went missing….

1824, January the 14th

Times are hard, and money is tighter than ever. I had to down size on my box again. I can't afford such a high electricity bill each month. The pool is nice, though. At least I still have that. Even if it is January in Cleveland…

1824, January the 20th

I haven't written in a while. Father has become enraged, all because I sold the family box to a hobo for a plane ticket to Brookland. Perhaps the Brookish will be more forgiving?

1824, January the 22nd

At last, after the long journey by aero-plains, or however it is spelled, I have arrived in Brookland. This place is abundant in "Brookland Rage." I have however, taken up substitute teaching, and now I have a macramé class on second street, every Friday night at 6. Life here is easier, when other people get mugged more often than you do. But there is such a dearth of cats and pigeons hat I cannot seem to find anything to eat. I may have to "buy" food. At a "market." With "money."

725 B.C.

I seem to have found a time vortex on the underside of a seat on the public transit. It may not be safe any longer to travel by metro; perhaps I should purchase a bike from the "grocery store?"

725 B.C., one day later

I cannot seem to find a way out. Although there are many large and fibrous pigeons to feast on, I long for the tasty cat meat of my home in Cleveland. Something appears to have been stalking me for the past few days; I must attempt to find out.

Until I can get my hand on a subway seat's underside, I will be stuck h---

*here the journal ends. From blood spatters and cat food smeared on the pages, it would be reasonable to infer that he was enjoying his last meal when the attack occurred.


End file.
